


Rose Quartz

by TheJotunPoleDancer



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Brief mentions of Steak n Shake, Brief mentions of suicide, Demons, Holistic Meds, M/M, Occult, Realistic magic, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-11 22:45:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9038054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheJotunPoleDancer/pseuds/TheJotunPoleDancer
Summary: Steve Rogers had no fears anymore. Not heights, not spiders, not crossing the road at such a time that it was basically a game of chicken in oncoming traffic. That was one of the side effects of having no value for life. He could have jumped from an airplane and had his parachute malfunction, and he was pretty sure the idea of fear wouldn’t even cross his mind. So when he got invited out on a date with a too-forward stranger in Brooklyn at night, Steve didn’t even care if Bucky was a murderer. If that’s how he was supposed to go, that’s how he was supposed to go.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Princess-of-the-Worlds.tumblr.com](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Princess-of-the-Worlds.tumblr.com).



> Secret Santa gift for Princess-of-the-Worlds.tumblr.com. First time writing in some time and bravely un-beta'd. Enjoy.

Steve Roger’s life promptly went to shit on his 24th birthday.

 

It had been a slow build to his ultimate failure, all stemming from the death of his mother just a week prior. Not even out of mourning, Steve had been faced with the very toxic reality that, without his mother’s assistance – Invest in life insurance while you can, kids – college was out of the question. His apartment was out of the question. A lot of his life that he had learned to comfortably live in was completely and utterly _out_ of the question.

 

Steve Rogers had wanted to be an artist. If not that, and perhaps more realistically, he had wanted to manage a gallery – the Carter Gallery, to be specific - to be surrounded by that which he had loved and had always loved since he was looking over O’Keefe books with his mother in the cradle. He never thought his dream would be so difficult when it was to _work._

 

He’d been so fucking wrong.

 

He moved out of his childhood apartment two months later. He’d stretched it for as long as he could, but his current job at Outback wasn’t cutting it anymore. He’d always dreamed of moving out, but knew it wasn’t an option with his mother’s health. Of course, the sudden eviction took away the whole dream aspect and left him very much high and dry, wondering if it was all some sick joke from the universe, the circumstances of it all.

 

He left behind so many childhood memories. On the way out the door, he brushed barely dry paint – a reminder that he had had to ‘fix’ the marks on the wall that his mother had drawn above his head every first day of school, even in college when the line barely wavered anymore.

 

His new apartment was about six steps down from where he /had/ been in life. ‘Studio’ was just too good a word for it. It was a room was what it was. One of those situations where an old Victorian had the rooms rented out to all different types of people. Steve never had to see them due to the metal ladder/staircases the landlords had put outside each room, renovating one of only three windows to make a door. Steve was sure he lived with at least four other people, but he had yet to see any of them. He counted that as one of very few blessings.

 

Until he started to feel lonely.

 

And then he just picked up extra shifts at work.

 

Steve had been one hell of an artist in college, just not the kind that was edgy or talented enough to get a miracle full scholarship when tuition was no longer an option. Sure, if he’d written to those foundations that offered scholarships that he needed the money because he’d just lost everything, he would get the scholarship. But Steve Rogers was no charity case. Besides, on top of not having the time to pick up the tools of his trade anymore, he didn’t have the energy.

 

Dozens of half-finished portraits and landscapes littered the small plastic table in the corner of his room, many of which had either pasta sauce or coffee stains on them now. All of his pencils and paints had been left to bake in the summer sun through the dirty and smudged windows of his room.

 

But it was for the best, he had to tell himself. At least he could afford his rent and his food. That’s all people really needed, right?

 

Six months after his 24th birthday, the Carter Gallery that Steve visited every weekend (after his nine to three shift that he had to beg for, even though he was almost ‘over hours’) posted an opening for a Gallery Assistant, and Steve saw it as a goddamn sign. It was the first time since his mother’s death that Steve felt like maybe he _did_ have a purpose – that maybe this suffering was for _something._ He was more than qualified. Over fifty hours volunteering in galleries, part-time jobs and internships at the museums in the Square, the AA degree he had managed to get before his life went downhill. He was made for this job, qualified like no other. He applied and even emailed the place once a week. Somehow, he scrounged together all of the letters of recommendation he had asked for before leaving college and sent them as well.

 

And then, he waited.

 

Seven months after his 24th birthday, Steve met the Director of the Carter Gallery at his work. It had been a slow night, and Steve was looking at leaving with forty dollars after an eight hour shift…when _it_ happened. Funny thing was that he wouldn’t have even known the Director was there had the man not been _sat in Steve’s section._

 

Steve. Nearly. Lost. It.

 

But he was no novice to universe’s gifts. People like the Director didn’t just come to Outback for dinner. Not when they could go literally anywhere else. No, the Director was there for a reason – to _meet Steve._

So Steve put himself together and worked out the best service any one could ever ask for. The Director even asked him – _asked him ­–_ what someone as personable and charming as him was doing working at an Outback. He had clearly expected Steve to say something along the lines of ‘Just doing this until I get out of school.’ Needless to say, he was impressed when Steve explained to him – _briefly –_ that he was just waiting for his big break to finally work in the art industry. Steve’s heart nearly dropped to the floor when the Director said he would check out his resume, and left one _nice_ tip on the table that evening.

 

That was it. Steve knew this was his moment. A guy like him, a genuinely good guy, didn’t get to suffer for nothing. There was a plan for him still, a purpose, and this was his calling. His life was about to change, and he fucking knew it.

 

Eight months after his 24th birthday, Steve was still working at Outback.

 

Nine months after his 24th birthday, Steve was still working at Outback.

 

Ten months after his 24th birthday, Steve was working at Steak n’ Shake after the Outback was sold, and Starbucks wouldn’t hire him.

 

Eleven months after his 24th birthday, Steve started to go to therapy.

 

­­­----

 

Sam Wilson was a great guy – someone Steve could have been friends with had he not been assigned as Steve’s psychiatrist. Rules against it and all that.

 

The only reason therapy was even an option for Steve was because of the indigent medical plan offered at the VA. Steve had never been to war, but his drunk of a father had, and they worked it out for him.

 

Another blessing amongst the few he truly had.

 

He remained grateful.

 

Steve specifically asked that his diagnosis not be revealed to him. He just wanted to be helped. He didn’t want labels or medication, he just wanted an unbiased opinion on how he was handling life. Of course he thought he was being dramatic, constantly being reminded of his mother’s words of wisdom. _There were always people worse off than him._ There were people with no homes, no friends, no family, people who had lost limbs, who were starving, who had lost children. How could Steve complain about having a job, a home, and a life he fucking hated?

 

“You won’t let me prescribe you medication,” Same recapped with Steve at the end of one of his sessions, “So you can’t roll your eyes at me when I offer alternative methods.”

 

“Yeah, but you’re telling me tea is going to make my life magically better?” Steve wasn’t buying it. Chamomile didn’t sweeten nearly a year of shit circumstances, no matter how much honey you added.

 

“I’m just saying you should try something different,” Sam replied easily, setting aside Steve’s file. “You’ve decided not to distance yourself from the art world, stopped going to galleries and all that, and I respect that more than you know, but I want you to try to input positivity in your life. Try church, try crystals, try knitting, try selling your soul to the Devil, but try _something_ ¸ okay? We’ll pick up next week and see what you’ve decided on.”

 

Well, therapist’s rules.

 

\---

 

The first week, Steve tried church. In fact, he stuck to that for the month. He loved the feeling of hope going into the church, the feeling of camaraderie. He even liked sitting next to Mrs. Twyford and helping her stand during the worship songs. He loved the feeling of having a group of people to spend his 25th birthday with, loved when the congregation sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to their youngest member, shared their stories of when they were his age, even baked him a cake.

 

But one month later, and he was still at Steak n’ Shake, wondering why the fuck he wasn’t getting _any_ sort of assistance from the big guy in the sky.

 

On the third week, when church was only cutting into his work shifts, he tried knitting. It was too artsy, and there was nothing empowering about a twenty-five year old crying over a ball of yarn. He refused to do it any longer.

 

Crystals came next. Shiny, expensive rocks that he couldn’t afford, but kept buying them with no payoff whatsoever. It was nice to have something constant, something he could put intention into and pray _something_ came of it. It wasn’t like anything else had helped him. These shiny rocks were just as viable as God at this point.

 

Faith in rocks turned into faith in the stupid tea, and that turned into keeping certain plants in his little room. He didn’t have the money or the room for them either, but he needed _something_ – even if it was just a placebo.

 

Six months after his 25th birthday, his back pocket holding one hell of a chunk of amazonite, Steve Rogers got a call from a gallery in Brooklyn.

 

He’d been referred by the Director at the gallery he had pined over for years, and even though it was a temporary position, he knew what this was.

 

This was his chance.

 

This was his foot in the door.

 

He was a glorified security guard, but he was working _in_ a gallery. It was the best day of his life in such a long time, working amongst walls and walls of many of his favorite artists. On his second day, he even got to stand by while one of the featured artists worked their installment. He saw his dream, his _life,_ up close and personal. He saw what he could be – what he _would_ be – and he thanked the Universe every second that he got. Looked right up to the sky and everything.

 

For the first time in a long time, Steve Rogers remembered what happiness felt like. He’d categorized this day right up with the day his acceptance letter from his university, when his mother opened it first because she couldn’t wait. She had been so proud. He categorized this day with the day he’d received his internship at the MOMA. He categorized this day with the day he and his mother went to Disney and rode the Tower of Terror four times in a row.

 

There are five moments in everyone’s lives that define who they are, and this was one of his. He couldn’t wait to take the next step.

 

This was his life now. This was his purpose.

 

Six months and one week after his 25th birthday, Steve Rogers was back at Steak n’ Shake.

 

All semblance of happiness had left him. He couldn’t even remember how he had felt inside of that gallery. All he had to remember his time there was the paystub of the check they had given him. He kept it pinned on his wall. It was a nice souvenir.

 

They _had_ told him it would be temporary.

 

\---

 

Steve Rogers didn’t want to kill himself.

 

Well, not all the time.

 

He understood that killing himself was giving up on any hope that he had in the Art Industry, and even one percent of a chance was better than no chances.

 

So every day, he woke up, he went to Steak n’ Shake, and then he went to the library to search for any job openings at any galleries in the area. He would even take a janitorial position at that point, he didn’t care. He just wanted to get his foot back in that door.

 

Nine months after his 25th birthday, Steve Rogers gave up on his crystals, his _magical_ plants. They say lined along his windowsills, corroding and dying in the sunlight.

 

He tried psychics, he tried praying, he tried bartering with the universe. He even tried selling his soul to Devil, but that just left him feeling stupid-as-fuck at a crossroads in Jersey, down a picture of himself and his mother, and wondering what he was going to do since he missed the last train home.

 

\---

 

Eleven months after his 25th birthday, Steve Rogers was still at Steak n’ Shake, still alive, still kicking.

 

But he honestly didn’t know why anymore.

 

\---

 

Four months after his 26th birthday, Steve Rogers met James Barnes.

 

They’d met in the ‘Holistic Health’ store. Steve had been there to add another useless, pretty rock to his collection out of habit alone, and James – ‘Bucky’ - had been there telling a girl around Steve’s age that she needed jade, not rhodocrosite, for her issue, and that she should really try sigil magic, because that was guaranteed to help her.

 

And if a guy that looked like _that_ was offering help to strangers, Steve was happy to swallow his pride and ask for help.

 

Luckily for him, he didn’t have to.

 

“Rose quartz,” the man who he would learn to be Bucky told him, approaching Steve easily, confidently, with a smile on his face and his hands stuffed into the back pockets of his perfectly-tailored pants. “You’re looking for rose quartz.” Steve hadn’t yet upped his flirting game to the ‘He speaks to you first’ possibility. He had no response just yet.

 

“Although, it’s completely useless without the proper incantation, and that takes _work.”_ The guy was right in Steve’s space without a qualm, looking at the array of stones in his hand. Steve had every mind to just throw them to the wind. How was he supposed to look cool to a guy when he had a handful of magical rocks in his hand?

 

“Rose quartz?” Steve finally asked when his balls had ‘un-crystalized’.

 

“Rose quartz.” Steve wondered if they were about to go in on a Holistic version of ‘Who’s on First?’ “Here.” And before Steve could think to respond, the guy had his hand and was dragging him towards a wall of pink stones.

 

“Grab one,” he instructed, taking Steve’s hand and dipping it into the box of crystals. A little bit of digging later, and Steve had pulled out one of the rocks. He held it in his open hand with a quirked brow.

 

A very long silence ensued.

 

“You, my friend,” the guy started, letting go of Steve’s hand and motioning to himself, “Have just witnessed a miracle.”

 

Steve found the joke cruel with his recent run of luck, but he knew this guy didn’t mean anything by it. He didn’t know.

 

“I’m sorry,” Steve chuckled, sobered by the very idea of a miracle. What a fucking joke. “I don’t really….get it.”

 

“Rose quartz.” This guy had a fucking hard-on for the damn rock, Steve took it. “Attracts love and romance.” And with that, the guy held out his hand to Steve. “James Barnes. Let me take you out to dinner.”

 

\---

 

Steve Rogers had no fears anymore. Not heights, not spiders, not crossing the road at such a time that it was basically a game of chicken in oncoming traffic. That was one of the side effects of having no value for life. He could have jumped from an airplane and had his parachute malfunction, and he was pretty sure the _idea_ of fear wouldn’t even cross his mind. So when he got invited out on a date with a too-forward stranger in Brooklyn at night, Steve didn’t even care if Bucky was a murderer. If that’s how he was supposed to go, that’s how he was supposed to go.

 

He’d dressed in the best clothes he had – the pants from his security uniform, and the button-up from his mother’s funeral. It was the first time in a long time he had even put effort into his hair, but he did it up just like he used to back in school. As it turned out, he still cleaned up pretty well.

 

Four months and two weeks after his 26th birthday, Steve Rogers went on a date with Bucky Barnes.

 

The guy knew how to make a special night, that was for damn sure. He was almost omniscient with how lucky he had gotten with first date material. Steve didn’t know if it was because they were on the same wavelength or if the guy was a stalker, but without having to say a word regarding his interests, Bucky had taken him to an interactive art exhibit in a small experimental gallery outside of the city.

 

It was the first step Steve had taken into the art world in some time.

 

Bucky was almost as enthralling as the immersive light display filling a full room of mirrors. Surrounded by a galaxy of soft lit bulbs, Steve had to wonder if he was dreaming. It sounded cliché, but he seriously didn’t know what was happening here. He had honestly expected to be murdered in a dark alley tonight.

 

This was definitely a better way to spend the evening.

 

Bucky was unreal. Literally. Yet Steve could see him, hear him, touch him. Even if that didn’t mean anything, the guy gave him a ride home, and it wasn’t like Steve had just teleported, so _something_ had just happened.

 

Even if Steve couldn’t fully comprehend it.

 

At the end of their date, Bucky handed Steve a little box – “Just a little something,” he chuckled.

 

Steve couldn’t help but laugh when he saw that damn piece of Rose Quartz.

 

\---

 

Five months and one week after his 26th birthday, Steve Rogers found happiness again.

 

But it wasn’t _in_ Bucky Barnes.

 

It was _through_ Bucky Barnes.

 

\---

 

Whenever something good happened for Steve nowadays, he was always anxiously awaiting the KO from the Universe to counteract it.

 

Bucky was a fucking saint. He really was. Steve had not been after dragging anyone into his shithole of a life, but Bucky had come in so willingly. Steve wasn’t in the place for romance, but it was nice to have someone to spend time with. It was nice to have someone to listen to him when he needed it, and to distract him when he couldn’t talk anymore. It was nice to have someone to hang out with, to listen to music with – even if it was the shit Bucky liked to listen to. Honestly, it Steve heard ‘Karma Chameleon’ one more time in his life, he was going to pop.

 

But he’d had worst problems.

 

Bucky wasn’t the answer to his problems, Steve knew that for sure. Bucky bringing a pizza and a movie to Steve’s apartment didn’t change the fact Steve had to disappear into the shared bathroom of his shitty apartment to change out of his grease-covered Steak n’ Shake uniform to get comfortable.

 

But every night they hung out, Bucky continuously promised Steve, “I’m going to help you.” And he meant it. Steve could see it in his eyes, hear it in his tone. It was never an air of hope, nor was it some stab at blind faith. It was a confident remark, a promise, a _fact._ Bucky _was_ going to help Steve.

 

\---

 

Six months after his 26th birthday, Steve Rogers was surrounded by the works of Hirst, Kusama, Kapoor, Kiefer, Kruger, Pollock, Quin, Warhol.

 

Seven months after his 26th birthday, Steve Rogers moved in with his boyfriend Bucky Barnes.

 

\---

 

It had all taken a phone call – being in the right place at the right time. Knowing the right person at the right time in the right place.

 

Bucky had told Steve he’d worked in the gallery Steve had pined after all of these years, and though Steve had never seen him there, he knew it was true when Bucky just _called_ the director and dropped Steve’s name.

 

“The kid’s great.” Steve had overheard Bucky say on the phone. He’d probably gone into the other room for a reason, but Steve had been so used to his life in his ‘studio,’ that privacy was still a little foreign to him.

 

Bucky’s apartment was much nicer than Steve’s despite being a one-bedroom on a busy street. Their walls were already lined with Steve’s works, stained and all, and in the living room sat a desk of new works, all sketches, but all the start of something Steve had given up on so long ago. Even Steve’s crystals found a place around his work station. Bucky had insisted they stay.

 

The Rose Quartz piece Bucky had bought Steve was in the living room where anyone and everyone could see it.

 

Bucky liked the whole crystal thing. When Steve moved in, Bucky didn’t own any, but he had these candles and a table where he kept all sorts of odd, ancient-looking trinkets, a few more candles, and some slips of paper with odd symbols on them. Every so often, Steve would walk on him meditating or muttering to himself surrounded by candles, but honestly who was Steve to judge? He’d tried to sell his soul to the devil once. He wasn’t going to knock a guy for being weirdly fucking spiritual.

 

Especially when that guy was Bucky Barnes, and he was giving everything Steve could ever ask for.

 

“Nick, listen, he’s a hard worker.” Bucky was pacing in the living room, tossing some crystal or another in the air as he talked. “He’s resilient as hell, and you should see the understanding this kid has for art. Yeah, man. He’s amazing. Look, just keep him in mind, okay? I put my name behind him, and you know I don’t do that lightly. Just remember him, okay? That assistant of yours isn’t going to be around forever.”

 

Bucky had hung up the phone and rejoined Steve after the conversation, and it took everything for Steve to pretend he hadn’t heard a bit of Bucky’s vouching for him. It took everything for Steve to not let his gratitude pour from him, because he wasn’t supposed to know what had just been done. And maybe nothing would come of it, but after being alone and so unhappy for so long, it was nice to have someone that would go out on a limb for him like that.

 

“What was that about?” Steve played stupid, hoping Bucky would fess up so Steve could thank him properly. But all he got out of the other man was:

 

“The Universe has got something in store for ya, kid. You just wait.”

 

So Steve waited.

 

\---

 

On his 28th birthday, Steve Rogers _finally_ quit his job at Steak n’ Shake and started his life at the Carter Gallery.

 

As expected, Nick’s assistant _hadn’t_ stuck around forever. Luckily, she had left due to a pregnancy, and not for some terrible reason. Steve didn’t want others to suffer just so he could succeed, even if he had no control over that.

 

“It’s actually a miracle,” Bucky had shrugged off over dinner that night – a celebration for Steve finally making it. Bucky was an excellent cook, and he looked even better with that long hair of his in the otherwise dreaded man bun, his skin shining from the steam coming out of the pot. “From what I hear from Nick, the girl had been trying to get pregnant for, like, three years now. Looks like the Universe was just waiting for you to take her spot, huh?” Steve couldn’t help but laugh – something he was just learning to do again with genuine intention. He hadn’t chuckled out of mirth for a very long time.

 

“I think the Universe was waiting for _you,_ ” Steve corrected Bucky.

 

He would _never_ be able to thank Bucky for what he had done. Between getting him his dream job, allowing Steve into his house—hell, for _asking him out in the first place ­–_ Steve would be forever grateful and forever in debt.

 

And every time he told Bucky that, Bucky just shrugged it off and said, “Not forever.”

 

\---

 

On his 29th birthday, Steve Rogers was not at the Carter Gallery.

 

He was off for his birthday.

 

He’d kept his job. In fact, he was excelling in it. He’d really shown that passion that he thought he had lost all those years ago. His work went above and beyond, he was smiling again, and maybe Steak n’ Shake had been the bane of his existence, but the customer service work had definitely helped shape him. He was the model employee he always knew he could be, and he made sure to give his best even on the bad days, because really, a ‘bad day’ at his dream job was far from the bad days he had experienced before he had it.

 

Now that Nick trusted him and his eye for the arts, he had more or less taken Steve on as his mentee. Steve had officially been trained to appraise art. He’d been given the right to book exhibits, and throw tasteful parties as he pleased. Fundraisers and seasonal decorations also became a part of his job description, and even though he never would have asked for it, a nice raise came with the promotion. He had enough money to pay his bills on time, all on one day. He had the money to buy Christmas presents, to give to the homeless, to donate to the gallery, to pay for the art he liked. He was finally living his dream, finally being gifted the upswing the Universe owed him for all of his suffering all those years ago.

 

And now, he was on a date with his fucking gorgeous boyfriend. His fucking gorgeous boyfriend who had just bought him a motorcycle for his birthday. Steve had always wanted one, but he’d never had the balls to ask for one. After living life in such poverty, he just couldn’t get to a place where he could ask for something so expensive and so frivolous. Yet there it was, right outside their apartment. Bucky had already scheduled his riding classes and license test.

 

Bucky just _knew._

 

Steve would _never_ be able to repay him.

 

One day after his 29th birthday, at midnight on the dot, Steve laid curled up with his boyfriend beneath the thin sheets on their bed. In his hand, Steve turned over the piece of Rose Quartz Bucky had given him on their first date. Just over the quiet sound of the warm July breeze coming from the cracked windows, Steve told Bucky he loved him for the first time.

 

“I just think we were _meant_ to be together,” Steve picked up in their conversation when his lips had parted from Bucky’s. “Like we’re practically soulmates.”

 

Bucky just leaned in and said, “Practically,” before initiating another round of kisses.

 

\---

 

Three months after his 30th birthday, Steve Rogers stayed late at work to set up a very special event at the Gallery: his wedding.

 

With Nick’s permission, Steve had turned one of the exhibit rooms into his own little creation. Well, a creation of his own, inspired by his Bucky. Bucky had asked for so few details, but with all Steve owed him, he paid special attention to every small detail Bucky had alluded to.

 

He had asked for a small wedding, thus the use of the Gallery. The place was for Steve, the size of the room was for Bucky. He’d asked for a Fall-themed wedding, thus Steve’s attention to the warm golds, the light touches of the season without going all out on the holiday in which they were doing this. Bucky hadn’t asked for a Halloween wedding, but with his odd little collection and habits, Steve had to assume it wasn’t something Bucky would protest. Besides, it worked perfectly. It was one of the Gallery’s slowest nights of the year.

 

Steve wanted things to be perfect. He wanted to do all he could to make Bucky as happy as he had made Steve. He gave him everything he wanted despite Bucky assuring him that he “didn’t owe him any more than he had already given.”

 

Whatever it was he was referring to, it wasn’t enough.

 

Three months and three weeks after his 30th birthday, Steve Rogers was a married man.

 

\---

 

Eight months and one week after his 30th birthday, Steve Rogers was the Director of the Carter Gallery.

 

\---

 

Bucky was weird, there was no denying that. Now that they were married and Steve no longer had to worry about finances, his mental health, or his future, he was beginning to recognize that. Of course, it wasn’t something that ever had Steve regretting their union, but it was something interesting that Steve liked to think about while he worked, when the gallery was quiet and he had time to work on his own art in the back.

 

The first little thing Steve had picked up on was that he had _no_ idea how Bucky knew the Director of the Gallery. When Nick had retired rather suddenly just a few months after Steve’s marriage to Bucky, Bucky didn’t show any interest in the retirement party. When Steve had begun his transition to Director, he couldn’t find a single file with Bucky’s name on it. Nick claimed to have known Bucky for quite a while, but when Steve asked how, Nick’s response was a rather vague, “I’ve just always known the kid.”

 

Bucky talked to himself frequently, as well. Steve hardly ever brought his work home anymore, so he had a lot more free time to spend with his husband, and that was becoming all the more clear. It was only when he was alone, so Steve had to assume it was something Bucky was aware of, but that didn’t stop him from doing it altogether. At first, he’d thought it was Bucky singing his horrible 80’s music to himself, but Steve never heard or recognized a tune, and Bucky didn’t look to be bopping along when he was muttering. If anything, he looked perturbed.

 

And then there was what Bucky did – or perhaps, what he did _not_ do every day. Steve was almost certain Bucky never left the house, even though his personality seemed like he was the kind of guy who could never sit in. He was just always free, and it only occurred to him, after marrying the guy, that he had no idea what Bucky did. His husband dressed nicely, was obviously successful, had the confidence to rival anyone’s, and yet Steve had no idea what his husband actually _did._ And he hadn’t even thought to worry about it until now. That wasn’t like him in the slightest.

 

And maybe it shouldn’t be weird, but Bucky was _always_ there for him. No matter the time of day or what Steve needed, Bucky was there and he had it. He was always free to come to the gallery, to go and grab lunch, to pick something up from the store, anything. But he wasn’t a pushover. Bucky had personality and charisma, and he’d give Steve shit when it was deserved.

 

The weirdest of all things about Bucky though, strangely enough, was that he _loved_ Steve. Unconditionally. And that wasn’t a flare up of anxiety talking. Bucky just… _loved_ him. He always told Steve that, but it really came to a head one winter night, when they were all curled up in bed, and Bucky told Steve, “You know I’ll never let anything bad happen to you, right?”

 

Nothing bad had happened to Steve in a long time. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last _inconvenience_ he had even stumbled across. He wanted to ask Bucky what he meant, but before he knew it, he could hear Bucky’s soft, sleeping breaths.

 

\---

 

“I have to say, it’s been nice not having to see you.”

 

Sam’s profession was the _only_ profession where Steve wouldn’t take that as anything but a compliment.

 

Sam was happy for Steve, there was no question about that. Weekly visits had turned to monthly visits, and monthly visits had just turned to Steve dropping in because he couldn’t just abandon Sam. He knew so much about Steve, and he truly had helped him through some of the worst of his fall. It was nice to stop and chat every so often…even if Sam still made Steve do most of the talking.

 

He’d come to talk about his most recent misgivings about his somewhat estranged husband, but the moment he’d seen one of Sam’s patients walking out of his office, eyes full of tears, Steve knew he had nothing to complain about. There were always people worse off than him. But he wasn’t going to leave just because he didn’t have anything to complain about. That’s not why he came here anyway. Sam was a friend, even if this was the only place they could talk.

 

“So tell me about this husband of yours,” Sam prompted Steve over coffee. “You sound like you are attributing most of your success to him.”

 

“Sam,” Steve started, “This is _not_ a therapy session. We are just talking. Do not psychoanalyze me.”

 

“You’re paying me. The service I offer is ‘psychoanalyzing’ as you call it,” Sam reminded Steve, but Steve was having none of it.

 

“I am paying for your _company,”_ Steve corrected his friend. “I just pay because I’m not going to ask you to clear a spot in your schedule for free when you could be making money.”

 

“So, I’m a call-girl,” Sam teased light-heartedly, just dodging the hard candy Steve threw at him. “Alright, alright!” Sam could quit with, at least, the verbal diagnoses. “But seriously, tell me about this Bucky guy. You seem pretty darn taken by him.”

 

“He’s my soulmate, Sam.” It came out effortlessly, without a second thought or qualm. Steve truly believed what he was saying. “He loves my art, he’s supportive, he’s charming, kind, _handsome._ ”

 

“All good things,” Sam interjected, thinking active listening was too formal for this.

 

“Don’t get me wrong, he’s bizarre,” Steve laughed, and that comment piqued the therapist’s interest. “He’s almost _too_ available, and he’s so confident that I am pretty sure a literal earthquake couldn’t shake him. But I don’t think that he’s all there, Sam.” Steve didn’t say it at all like it was a bad thing. “To be fair, I don’t think I’d believe he was real if he was any more perfect. But Sam, since he’s been around, my life has just been so _great._ He’s perfect for me, and I really, honestly think that I got my soulmate, Sam.”

 

“Sounds to me like you got an _angel_ ,” Sam laughed, genuinely happy to hear all of this from Steve. He knew a miracle when he saw one.

 

And even Steve had to wonder if that was the case.

 

\---

 

The day of his 35th birthday, Steve stayed at the Gallery late. He had anticipated taking off around six and letting his assistant Wanda take over for the evening, but a certain new exhibit had drawn such a crowd that Steve couldn’t even think about leaving.

 

He had scheduled his own exhibit for his birthday, hoping that a night out with his husband would distract him from a poor turnout, so when the line formed outside before the Gallery even opened, Steve was thinking there must have been a mistake. The gallery up the street was unveiling two new paintings from an estranged Peruvian artist, and Steve had to assume they were all in the wrong place, but everyone was holding the flier for _his_ opening in their hand, so…that was something.

 

Steve was a no-name artist. This turnout was unprecedented. Sure, he had given himself a name in the community, but that was because once a month, he donated a thousand dollars to charity. He’d given back to Brooklyn, his home, and to so many impoverished kids because he _never_ wanted anyone to suffer as he had, but he had specifically not advertised near those places, because he didn’t want it to seem like a publicity stunt.

 

It was all just _off_ to Steve. _No one_ got this much good in their life, no matter how much they cared, or gave, or loved. He knew for a fact that he had not suffered enough for this much payout, and yet there he was, in his little exhibit, surrounded by people praising his ‘statement.’

 

He had to pinch himself physically.

 

There was no way.

 

Steve rubbed mindlessly at the piece of Rose Quartz in his pocket, anchoring himself to…this.

 

Over the past two years, not much had happened in Steve’s life. Time was flying, and he knew it was because he was having fun. Christ, Steve’s only headache recently had been from the barking from the apartment from beneath them. The neighbours that Steve didn’t even know they had had clearly gotten two dogs for Christmas, and the things always just started going off at exactly 10:15 every evening. And that just started a chain reaction with the dogs across the street. It seemed to be the _one_ thing his husband couldn’t fix, but he was apologetic about it.

 

It wouldn’t even have bothered Steve if it wasn’t for the fact he usually got home at 9:00 at night, and by then, he just wanted to wind down with Bucky. He’d taken longer hours at the Gallery to plan for his exhibit, meaning he saw Bucky – and his little ticks – much less, and he just wanted that time to catch up.

 

But Bucky – perfectly odd Bucky – always reminded him that this was Steve’s _dream._ He needed to do all he could to be happy. And where Steve would have loved more time with Buck, he knew they had all their lives together. That being said, Bucky was clearly bothered with the loss of Steve’s time, and it did not go unnoticed.

 

As soon as his exhibit was over, they’d catch up. He wouldn’t waste another moment he could have with Bucky.

 

But for now, Steve powered forward. Bucky gave him tea to help him sleep at night, lit his little candles and let the room fill with the scents of rose, patchouli, and lavender. He told Steve they would induce sleep and boost creativity. Steve definitely saw a difference when he got down to the wire on his exhibit.

 

And then, he was there, rested, proud, and so, _so_ happy.

 

The ever-supportive husband of his showed up four hours after opening, dressed to the nines as per usual, carrying Starbucks and a present for Steve. He tried to blend into the crowd, but it was no use. Steve could have spotted him from a mile away, that little beacon of beauty…and everyone else seemed to be checking him out, too. Surrounded by his well-received art, the people who were enjoying it, in the position of his dreams, Steve pulled his husband to the side and stood proudly by him, truly reveling in all that he had. He couldn’t help the snippet of PDA that ensued. He was too grateful not to. He truly believed he wouldn’t be here without Bucky.

 

But Bucky wasn’t his usual charismatic self that evening. He was supportive, of course, and if Steve was being honest, he looked as handsome as ever. His skin was even glowing, his eyes bright, his smile as white as could be. But there was just something that radiated _exhaustion._

 

“You been burning candles?” Steve asked, sniffing his boyfriend’s hair as he hugged him, not recognizing a single of the scents on his body. Steve was learning all the associations of scents and whatnot to their intention, but Bucky almost smelled _bad_ – which was _definitely_ a first. The only reason Steve guessed candles was because he could smell the tell-tale smoke their apartment usually smelled of at the end of a candlelit session. “What’re you doing that for?”

 

“I was just worried about ya,” Bucky dismissed, looking out over the crowd. “Knew you were nervous about today, wanted things to go well.”

 

“I think things have exceeded my expectations,” Steve assured him. “Looks like your little candles have been working.”

 

“No.” Bucky was quick to say it, taking Steve at arm’s length and fixing his hair up a bit before smartening his clothes. “This is all you, Steve. This is all yours.”

 

Steve couldn’t begin to fathom the pride he felt in that statement.

 

When all the people had shown up, he could have sworn Bucky had something to do with this. He couldn’t imagine what, but whenever something grand happened in his life, Bucky was usually the culprit for his success. To know in those few, honest words that Bucky had done nothing, that this was finally Steve’s success before him was just a bit too much. He’d done it. He’d finally fucking made it.

 

He had lost so much. He couldn’t help but think back to being that server at Outback, dealing with terrible fucking people – back to working at Steak n’ Shake for minimum wage, telling himself over and over that his time was coming, that his time was coming.

 

His mother would be so proud. She had always told Steve that he was meant for something great. With how sick he was as a child, he never should have survived, but he had, and from that moment, she knew her son would be a success. He wished she could see him now, financially and mentally stable, working his dream job, happily married. His mother would love Bucky and all of his peculiarities. She could probably do without the crystals and the candles, but Steve knew she would be able to look past it to see her son so fucking happy.

 

That night, all tangled up in his husband, Steve laughed at the gift he had only just unwrapped after their celebratory sex.

 

A fucking box of stupid tea and six new crystals to add to the collection.

 

“And what are these meant for?” Steve asked, picking a hunk of black tourmaline and turning it over in his hand.

 

A couple thousand red flags were raised when Bucky somberly replied, “Protection.”

 

\---

 

Nine months after his 35th26 birthday, Steve was ready to continue down his path to success.

 

His last exhibit had been such a triumph that it ran for six months. Maybe it was pride that wouldn’t let him take it down, maybe it was the fear that it didn’t get better than _that,_ but finally, one cold night in January, Bucky lit a few candles at Steve’s request, and they sat together, meditated over what Steve’s next exhibit could showcase. He needed creativity, he needed an epiphany, and Bucky was, as always, willing to help.

 

Even if he did seem a little distracted when he agreed to help.

 

Perhaps he somehow foresaw Steve losing sleep and mentally exhausting himself in an attempt to continue living out his dream. More likely – and more obviously – Bucky probably foresaw himself losing even more of Steve’s attention. He would have been right, of course.

 

Between the stress of planning for the exhibit and the lack of sleep he was getting because of the dogs downstairs, Steve was a time bomb that Bucky spent most of his time trying to diffuse. To be fair, this was as rough as Steve had it for nearly eleven years now, but everyone was susceptible to stress. And he was so accustomed to Bucky’s care and assistance. He loved that so much.

 

But that brought around a new problem:

 

Too much of a good thing.

 

On top of everything – and perhaps the most stressful thing – was that Bucky had just been _off_ since Steve’s birthday. Ad he was just constantly _there._ Even at the Gallery, Bucky would show up just to visit his husband, help him in any way he could, just try to be in Steve’s life. He was so giving – he really was – but too much of a good thing could get to anyone.

 

And it didn’t just stop at work. Every evening, Bucky made Steve ‘meditate.’ The house continuously smelled of Bucky’s candles, and where it had never bothered Steve before, he was starting to get headaches. The more time passed, the more Bucky talked to himself, and where he tried to hide it from Steve as he always did, he wasn’t doing as well.

 

Steve had tried to drop it. He had tried to keep focus on work, but he couldn’t do it. Steve was _worried._ Despite all of Bucky’s coffee, meditating, candles, tea, and rocks, there was no distracting Steve from there being something clearly not quite right in his husband’s head.

 

But it was peaking. It had been for the past two weeks. Bucky had become all the more anxious since the beginning of March. It was like _he_ was preparing for something, but again, Steve had never seen him do _anything._

 

Luckily – as all things had been for the past years for Steve - Bucky brought it up before Steve had been forced to ask.

 

“Have I been good at this? Being yours?”

 

It was two days before his exhibit opened, and Steve was so relieved they were getting this out of the way before the big day. Bucky just hadn’t been himself, and Steve wasn’t used to that. It was a stressor he didn’t need, but it explained so much. Steve had been giving so much to his work, he had forgotten to give to his husband. Of course that would set an unsettling course for them.

 

The wording was a little weird for someone who usually spoke so effortlessly, but Steve wasn’t about to point that out. This was the _first_ time Bucky had ever needed him, and Steve wasn’t about to let that opportunity pass.

 

“Bucky, you have been _perfect._ ” Steve didn’t want him to think any less. He couldn’t allow that. Not after all he had done for Steve. “You changed my life, Bucky. You…pushed me when I didn’t think I could do it anymore.”

 

“But you didn’t need _me_ for that, Steve,” Bucky interjected with a _tone._ If Steve didn’t know any better, he’d say Bucky was frustrated. “You had all of that on your own. You didn’t need _me.”_

Steve was beyond confused. He’d had Bucky in his life for almost ten years exactly. They’d never actually fought, they’d never gotten tired of each other, they’d never been anything less than perfect for each other. So why did it sound like…like Bucky didn’t want to be here?

 

“Bucky—“

 

“You could have done this without me, Steve. Why were you so fucking stupid—“

 

This was a lot all at once, but Steve supposed the estranged actions of his husband was starting to make sense. Steve should have known he was a burden. Of course he was. And this was the KO from the Universe he had been waiting for. He was losing his soulmate.

 

“I love you so fucking much, Steve.”

 

Okay…maybe he wasn’t?

 

Bucky looked beat up, genuinely so, and Steve was just starting to see the cracks in his husband’s resolve. Again, Bucky looked as good now as he ever had, if not better, but he looked so, so _hurt_. He looked so beyond worried, and if Steve didn’t know any better, he would swear his husband was scared.

 

“Bucky—“ Steve tried to start again, his hands finding Bucky’s cheeks and trying to read what was going on here. After years of seeing Bucky so confident, so calm, so collected, this was jarring. “Bucky, what are you getting at? Let me help you.”

 

“Just tell me it was worth it,” Bucky begged – _begged ­-_ Steve. “Tell me everything has been—“

 

“Bucky!” Steve had to stop him. He had always assumed his husband wasn’t all there, and after nearly ten years together, it was as alarming as it was relieving to see him like this. That being said, he didn’t want it to continue. Bucky had anticipated Steve’s needs for years. It was Steve’s turn to return the favour.

 

“Bucky, stop, baby, stop.” Bucky was running warm Steve realized as he pushed his fingers back through Bucky’s long hair. Not a single knot. “Bucky, _listen_ to me.” He’d shut his husband up for the time being. If it wasn’t for those fucking dogs, they’d be set.

 

“I know,” Steve started, “I _know,_ that I am focused on work, and Bucky, I _love_ my life. Before you, I didn’t think I could do this anymore. I was…alone. Completely alone. I worked at a fuckin’ Steak n’ Shake. I’d put all of my energy towards a future I was certain I would never have. And then I met _you.”_

Those dogs were really ruining the moment.

 

“I’ve got my dream job now, Bucky. My…my art is paying my bills. I get to wake up every day and do what I love, and then I get to come home to you and yeah, I know I’m tired, and I know I can be difficult, but I would never trade a moment that I shared with you for anything else.” Steve literally had everything he had ever wanted. “Bucky, I love you, and I will never stop, okay? We were meant to be together, and I genuinely believe that. I’m….I am _so_ grateful that I have you by my side. I wouldn’t want anyone else.”

 

There was a long moment after that, a moment where Bucky said nothing. He seemed to be thinking it over, as if he was weighing the words. Steve had to assume they sat right, for the next thing he knew, his husband had pressed their lips together. For a moment, all Steve could hear was his heart in his ears, the incessant barking of those goddamn dogs.

 

And then Bucky parted their lips and rested his forehead against Steve’s.

 

And then, Bucky started talking to himself.

 

And for the first time, Steve heard what he was saying, but it made absolutely no sense.

 

“Bucky—“

 

“I need you to come with me, baby.”

 

He offered his hand out to Steve, and without a second thought as to why Bucky looked so _broken_ , Steve took it. His husband was weird, he’d always known that, and after all the help he had given Steve, it was clear he needed help of his own. So Steve followed Bucky out into the foyer, trying not to focus on the way Bucky’s hands shook, on the way his eyes glistened in the right light.

 

He motioned for Steve to sit in their usual little circle, and while Steve adjusted himself on the cold, wooden floor, Bucky framed the circle with candles. Lavender, patchouli, rose. Protection, Steve had learned. Bucky was making the circle wide enough for the both of them, so he had to assume that this was for Bucky. His mind was…at unrest or something, and he needed clarity…or something. Steve didn’t get it all, but he always played along, willing to help his husband through whatever.

 

But then, Bucky pulled out candles Steve had never quite smelled before. He couldn’t name exactly what they were, but when lit, the candles smelled acrid, sour. They’d need to Febreeze later, that was for sure. But it was anything to help Bucky through this. It was…a little out there for Catholic-raised Steve Rogers, but he had put up with it for this long. Besides, he didn’t need to be up too early tomorrow. He could sit through this.

 

“Steve,” Bucky started, still outside the circle, gathering little things from around the room. Steve noticed the piece of Rose Quartz Bucky had been so bent on the first day they had met in the pile. “You mean everything to me, okay? I need you to know that.”

 

“I know that,” Steve assured Bucky, but his husband was quick to interrupt.

 

“But I need you to know that you could have done this alone.”

 

Steve believed that as much as he didn’t. He’d been so low that he never saw his future playing out this way without Bucky’s help kicking through that door. Yes, Steve had the talent, but he had been so unlucky before this man had come into his life.

 

“But Buck—“

 

“I never should have helped you.”

 

The words _stung,_ and just like that, Steve was back to feeling like a burden. He was trying to be understanding. Bucky was clearly at a mental impasse, but that was the second time he had insinuated he did not want to be there, and Steve was having a hard time stomaching all the mixed feelings.

 

“I should have let you figure this out on your own, but….I just _couldn’t._ I couldn’t, Steve. You fuckin—“ Bucky trailed off as he placed one of Steve’s paintings in the circle…and Steve was starting to realise that extra space might not be for Bucky.

 

“If it wasn’t me, it would have been Brock, or Nat…”

 

Steve had _no_ idea who those people were. He’d never met any of Bucky’s friends, especially no one named Brock or Nat.

 

“But I couldn’t let them have you…. _I_ wanted you. I just wanted to help you. I knew I couldn’t save you-“

 

“But you did, Buck! You did save me!” Steve tried to get in again, but Bucky just matched his volume. He had to. It seemed their fighting was just setting the dogs downstairs off all the more.

 

“I didn’t!” Bucky yelled outright. “I couldn’t—I _can’t,_ Steve. No on fucking can! You goddamn made sure of that!”

 

It was the first time Bucky had ever raised his voice, let alone, _yelled_ at Steve. Steve couldn’t even pay attention to how broke up his husband looked about it. He was too flabbergasted that it had even happened.

 

And there he was, sitting on the floor like an idiot, looking stupid-as-fuck surrounded by candles while the love his life yelled at him. Steve couldn’t even concentrate on what was being said at that moment.

 

But what Bucky placed in front of him next certainly pulled his attention back to the present.

 

His entire focus zoned right in on the box in front of him, and suddenly all he was aware of was the object before him and the barking of the dogs.

 

Hesitantly – oh so hesitantly – Steve reached out to touch it, as if it couldn’t be real. As if he expected his hand to go right through. But it didn’t. It fucking didn’t.

 

He brushed the dirt off the top of the box, placed his hand down on the lid. For a beat, he just couldn’t open it. He couldn’t actually believe that this was happening. But sure enough, it was there, and when he lifted the lid of the box, it was just what his brain told him it couldn’t be.

 

A picture of him and his mother.

 

The picture he had buried in Jersey all those years ago on a fucking pathetic whim.

 

He knew it.

 

“You were stalking me,” Steve breathed out, though he wasn’t all that surprised. Of course they weren’t _soulmates._ Bucky wasn’t some gift from the Universe. He’d forced himself into Steve’s life, coerced Steve into loving him. “You fucking stalked m—“

 

“You _summoned me_ ,” Bucky groaned outright, finally taking a seat on the couch. “You fucking summoned me, Steve. You fucking idiot…”

 

Okay, so it was weird, but….Bucky was clearly unstable. Stalking, the occult shit. Yeah, maybe Steve should have said something earlier. It wasn’t right how things had started, no, but Steve…Steve _loved_ Bucky. It wouldn’t be easy to look past stalking…especially when that meant Bucky had followed him to a fucking crossroads in Jersey, but Steve could look past it. They had been through so much, and Bucky had helped him through everything.

 

He could get him in with Sam. They could afford the treatment now. A few weeks with Sam, and Bucky would be good as new. They could make this work. It was going to be okay.

 

“Bucky,” Steve whispered soothingly, not wanting to set him off anymore now. “Bucky, it’s okay.” Steve stood, having to work out a few kinks in his legs from sitting cross-legged for so long. “Why don’t we clean all of this up, head back to bed, and—“

 

Steve walked smack into a wall. Like…a literal wall. He cursed aloud and rubbed his nose, backing up a bit only to back right into another.

 

Except there was nothing there.

 

He placed his palm out in front of him into thin air and, sure enough, it flattened against _nothing._

 

“What the fuck is this?”

 

He placed his other hand up against the barrier, looking to Bucky for some sort of answer. “Bucky?” He asked, his tone cracking the smallest bit. “Bucky, what the _fuck_ is this?” Bucky couldn’t even look at him.

 

“Bucky!”

 

“I can’t help you, Steve.” Bucky’s voice was soft, giving way to just how defeated he was, but Steve just couldn’t accept any of this. First of all, it was insane. He had not _actually_ sold his soul to the Devil. That was literally madness. Like Bucky said, he could have done this on his own – and he _had._ Steve had worked for this. Bucky had just gotten his foot in the door. Everything else, Bucky had just made easier. Every aspect of Steve’s life….and things had been so perfect…

 

Well, at the very least, Steve couldn’t believe this on the grounds that Bucky _couldn’t_ help. Bucky could – and had – helped with everything. There was nothing he couldn’t do.

 

“Steve, I am so sorry.”

 

His exhibit. He had his exhibit coming up in two days. He had to be there for it. He couldn’t have a mental break now. And their anniversary! They’d planned to travel. Some place warm, some place tropical, where they could curl up on the beach together and enjoy the warmth.

 

And the Gallery! Wanda wasn’t ready to take it over. Steve wasn’t even sure she wanted to! And it couldn’t be without a Director. They’d have to close it, find someone to take care of all the artwork.

 

And Steve’s art. He had so much left to create. This couldn’t be happening.

 

It really couldn’t be happening.  


“Buck, _please!”_ Steve cried out as loud as he could, trying to be heard over those dogs, those hellish hounds beneath them that never seemed to bother their fucking owners or anyone else on the block. “Bucky, I don’t know what this is, but please, it’s not funny! It’s not—“

 

Something grabbed Steve’s leg. Something solid and _strong._ It took hold of his ankle, and Steve couldn’t help but scream.

 

No. No, no, _no._

 

“Bucky, I can’t go to Hell.” There was no questioning what was happening now. It seemed insane, it seemed impossible, but Steve couldn’t deny what was going on. “Bucky, please, I can’t. I’m scared. You can’t let this happen!”

 

“There’s nothing I can _do_ , Steve!” He was crying. Steve could see it now, and that didn’t seem right. Especially given the circumstances. “There’s nothing…” The black of the smoke was rising from the candles. Steve could feel his ankle crushing under the grip of whatever the _fuck_ had him.

 

“Ten years,” Bucky bemoaned, rubbing his eyes and approaching the circle. Steve tried to reach out for him, but only met the invisible wall again. He tried again, but only the same thing happened. He was trapped.

 

But Bucky’s hand slipped right through the space, and for a moment, Steve felt the warmth of his hand again, a reminder that this was all so real, and that it all had been. Bucky had been telling the truth all those years when he said Steve needn’t repay him anymore than he had. He’d been nothing but honest when he said he _would_ help Steve. He’d meant it when he swore they were meant to be together.

 

Suddenly, all of Steve’s good luck made sense. All of Bucky’s oddities were no longer a mystery. He was always available, because that was what Steve had asked for. He’d asked to be happy – well, he’d sold his soul to be _happy._

 

And Bucky had done just that. He’d made Steve happy. Steve had been given his dream, but he had never asked for love. He never even thought he needed it. He’d been focused on his career, on himself, and Bucky…well, it wasn’t forced was what Steve was realizing. His love for Bucky and all of his quirks came naturally, a side-effect to his happiness, to finally loving his life and himself enough to share that care with another – someone who had done nothing but care for him for _ten_ years.

 

It was all worth it. Every bit.

 

And Steve wasn’t ready to lose it.

 

“Bucky, I love—“

 

But there was no finishing the statement.

 

Just like that, the man who had been by his side through _everything -_ the man who had seen to it that Steve was happy, comfortable, successful, and loved – disappeared. His hand past through Steve’s face like air, and where he had once stood, there was nothing but tendrils of curling smoke from the candles. Bucky was gone, leaving nothing behind but the bitter smell of burning.

 

And then the smoke engulfed Steve, choking him, shrouding his vision, and all he could do was scream out for Bucky, beg him to help with this _one last thing._

And then the screaming stopped. The dogs ceased to bark. The candles ceased to burn.

 

A few stray, half-finished portraits picked up in the April breeze coming from the open window, scattering around the floor, knocking into candles that had since blown out.

 

In the middle of the floor, there lay a single piece of Rose Quartz.

 


End file.
